like rhett and scarlett
by j. alfred prufrock
Summary: The first time Tim Shepard kissed Dallas Winston it was more like kissing himself, because they’re almost the same person – all salt and steel and smoke and a slow fire burning inside both of them. TimxDally


**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to its respectful owner; I am making no profit whatsoever off of this.

**i.**

It's Angela who breaks the news to Tim regarding Dallas's death over their morning coffee at six in the morning.

Tim had come home that night at around midnight, tired, bleeding and bruised, his nose broken (_again_) from the rumble, and he's pretty sure he's cracked some ribs and two of his fingers on his right hand are broken. He opens a beer, turns on the television and sits down. He drinks his beer slowly, deliberately, trying to remember when Dallas showed up and where the tow-headed greaser had run off to with the youngest Curtis.

Tim does not sleep that night, because he knows that something bad – something _wrong_- happened last night, and it's the same intuition that tells him to come home early in case Angela's comes home seething like a panther and needs help "straightening out" her latest boyfriend, or Curly comes home scared shitless and needing help because of his latest fuck up.

At around five o'clock, Angela comes staggering in the door. Her new heels have left blisters around her ankles, her curly hair is a tangled mess and her mascara and eyeliner streaks down her face in black tracks. "Tim!" she cries, a dry sob tearing through her. "Oh, God, Tim," and she's blubbering like a kid with a skinned knee, falling into his arms, shaking with emotion and leaving dark smears from her makeup on his shirt.

"And then – then I guess – I guess that Cade boy died – he just _died_, Tim and, fuck, and then Dallas Winston went insane and he tried – he tried to hold up a store… they _shot_ him, Tim, they just… they pumped him full of lead and I, oh, God, someone told Buck and Buck – Buck found me – I wasn't doing nothin' illegal, I swear – he found me and said that I should make sure you were okay and, oh, God, I was so scared. I thought – I thought you was hurt or – or _dead_ and then what'd happen to me and Curly?"

Tim is barely able to understand her through her tears, so he gently (at least, for him) tells her to go clean her face and he gives her his over-sized leather jacket and makes them a pot of coffee. He waits for her at the kitchen table and he tries to piece together her story. He understands that the Cade kid, the only who followed Dally and the youngest Curtis around like a little lost puppy, died.

_Well, he shouldn't have jumped in that fucking burning church_, Tim thinks privately, ruefully. And then something about Dallas trying to hold up a store and then someone getting shot.

That last part is where it starts confusing him. Dally would never be so stupid as to get himself shot or even hold up a store, because Dally's smart. Dally's like him that way; that's why they're friends. They understand that emotions just get in the way. If you never care, you never get hurt. If you're smart, you never get hurt.

_But you cared about __**him**_, says a vicious little voice in the back of his head. _Why'd you stay up last night? You were worried. Besides, Dallas ran into that church, too. He saved Cade and Curtis. You'd have gone in that church after him, wouldn't you_?

Tim doesn't have time to answer his own thought because that's when Angela comes into the kitchen, sniffling, her face bare of makeup and wearing pajamas and Tim's jacket. She drinks her coffee and tells him the abridged version of the story.

After the rumble, Dally and Curtis went to the hospital. Johnny Cade died shortly after. Dally went insane and held up a convenience store; the manager called the police. Curtis and his gang saw the police shoot Dally a few times and kill him because he waved the gun at them. Steve Randle told Buck Merrill what happened and Buck somehow got the idea that Tim was involved (of course he was, Tim's the toughest hood in Tulsa, of course he'd have something to do with it), Buck found Angela and told her to find her brother.

Angela came home, found Tim and now they're back at square one, with Angela in fresh tears, bawling about how she would've died if something happened to her oldest brother and Tim rubbing her back and trying to process the fact that Dallas is dead and he's still here, still breathing, still alive.

**a.**

The first time Tim Shepard kissed Dallas Winston it was more like kissing himself, because they're almost the same person – all salt and steel and smoke and a slow fire burning inside both of them.

Tim is certain that their flames will burn each other out, that they'll combust like a flame meeting gunpowder, but they'll rise from the ashes. Nothing can kill them.

Dallas is the white flame, with his fair hair and snapping blue eyes, like chips of burning ice, white skin smooth to the touch, except his hands are rough and calloused, gripping too hard, just the way Tim likes it. And Tim is like the moth drawn to it, but instead of burning when he touches it, he doesn't burn up.

They've both had some booze and Tim had procured some primo weed from Curly's secret stash in his underwear drawer and they're sharing a joint, but neither can claim being drunk or high as an excuse. It's just been a few years of silent, mutual attraction coming to a head on a heady, smoky June night. Both are angry, and Tim's nursing a black eye from his latest fight with one of the Brumly boys and Dally caught Sylvia in bed with someone else again and it's nearly empty at Buck's place.

"_Man, who needs broads anyway?" Dally asks, taking a sip of beer. "I mean, it's not like I ever even cared about her. She was just… just __**there**__, y'know?_

"_Yeah, man," Tim agrees, knowing to just let Dally talk and talk and bitch and whine and moan, because Dally talks a lot when he's drunk and high and pissed, and it's better to just let him vent instead of interrupting him. "I mean, you're lucky that you've got Angela. She taught you that chicks were nothing but trouble when she was younger, right?"_

_Tim snorts. "I guess," he replies, taking a long hit from the joint. "I mean, it's not like I thought all broads were going to be like my sister growing up, y'know?"_

"_Fuck 'em, man," Dally intones gravely, laughing a little. "I wish I could fuck 'em all. Fuck 'em and dump 'em. No one needs 'em."_

_Tim starts laughing for some reason. Maybe it's the mental image of Dallas fucking every girl in the world – even bitches like Julie Kistler, a girl in Tim's eighth grade math class with a boil and glasses – combined with the pot, but he starts laughing hysterically and can't stop. Tears roll down his cheeks and snot drips from his nose and he can't stop laughing._

_Then Dally kisses him, and the world stops._

_His heart's beating so loud he thinks it's going to beat itself out and his breath catches in his throat and the only thing he can feel is the sensation of Dally's lips on his and he closes his eyes, but he's afraid to blink and miss this moment._

_Dally pulls away, says "shut up, Tim," and takes another hit._

_They resume smoking and drinking and talking about Sylvia and Angela and how the only thing girls should do is look pretty, put out, serve drinks, make good food, do chores and give good head._

_Tim's lips burned the rest of the night._

**ii.**

He sees the youngest Curtis - _Ponyboy_, Tim remembers suddenly, _his name is Ponyboy_ - two days later. They're outside the grocery store and the kid still has that unfortunate haircut and dye job.

"Are you going to Dally's service?" Ponyboy asks.

Tim raises both eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"Dally's funeral," the boy clarifies. "It's next Saturday. I think… I think he'd like it if you came."

With a bitter laugh, Tim says, "Look, kid, that's real nice of you to invite me, but the thing is, I don't go to funerals. I lost a good friend, but it's not like I give a fuck. I didn't like him enough to want to listen to people sob and wail and bitch about 'being taken too soon' and listen to any fuckin' eulogies." He lights a cigarette, kicks the rock at his feet and raises his eyebrows.

Ponyboy looks taken aback and Tim feels sorry for him. He wants to shake the kid, make him realize that Tim Shepard doesn't do funerals, Tim Shepard doesn't do _feelings_, but he sort of wants to keep this kid pure and innocent and starry-eyed.

Tim sort of wished _he_ were still pure and innocent and starry-eyed, but that boy died at nine.

"Dally was a real Southern gentleman, you know," Ponyboy finally says.

"The fuck are you talking about?" Tim asks, laughing, but it sounds more like an aborted sob. "Dally was from New York."

Ponyboy shrugs. "I dunno. I can't really explain it. I mean, he was noble. Like those guys in _Gone With the Wind_."

"What the fuck is that?"

"You know… _Gone With the Wind_. It's a book and they made it into a movie. With Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh? It's a pretty big movie." At Tim's blank look, he continues, "it's about the Civil War and how Scarlett O'Hara is trying to keep her land and she's in love with Rhett Butler, but she can't really tell him that she loves him, and he leaves her in the end because she can't tell him. And Dally's like Rhett, because he pretends that he doesn't care, but he really does and they're both noble and…" He trails off. "Sorry."

Tim says, "Kid, you need to get your head out of your ass and your nose out of those fuckin' books. Life isn't a goddamn movie."

He walks off and takes short, quick drags on his cigarette, hoping to keep the tears and rage and sorrow at bay.

**b.**

They fuck for the first time two weeks after the surprise kiss.

This time, their heads are clear and there's only blood in their veins, and the want and need and hunger is sharp and burning, flames licking them, licking the walls and Tim's head is spinning and he wonders why the room isn't going up in smoke. It's all teeth and hands and sweat and not enough skin.

…_sharp nails dig into Tim's hips and he cries out, hisses, swears, and feels the wetness of bright red blood soaking into the top of his jeans, he groans, "ow, __**fuck**__, man, and tries not to whimper…_

They fight and wrestle for dominance and Tim eventually get the upper-hand and he smirks. Tugs on Dally's hair and bites down hard on the smaller man's shoulder. Rolls on a rubber, nudges Dally's legs open and rides him, fucks him hard. Underneath him, Dally whines and makes little mewling noises and Tim laughs, actually _laughs_ at this, the first real laugh in a long time.

When they're both finished and the mess is cleaned up, they lay in bed together, lounging and smoking and talking about what rumbles they're going to get in tomorrow and would Curly get sent back to the reformatory after he stole Mrs Kelson's car?

_Dally grabs a fistful of Tim's black curls and when Tim yelps and tries to pull away, Dally just holds on tighter. "Say my name," Dally growls, laughter in his voice and a smile on his lips. "Say it, bitch. I'm not lettin' go until you do, Shepard."_

"_Dallas," Tim breathes._

_And Dally smirks, rewards him with a kiss and Tim smacks him across the face, his fist open and palm stinging against Dally's cheek._

_They kiss again, teeth clacking together and Dally's lips splits open with the force._

They never mention that night again.

Tim doesn't forget, and he's sure Dallas doesn't, either.

**iii**_._

"How do I look?"

Tim raises and lowers one shoulder.

Angela purses her lips. Her hair is teased, styled off to one side, her lips are red, her cheeks are rouged and her eyes are lined with black. "_Tim_," she whines. "How do I look?"

"You look fine," Tim says after a moment.

Angela pouts at her reflection. "I dunno. Is this too Vivien? I'm going for more of an Audrey look."

"Who and what?"

Sighing, she turns around again. She cocks one hip out and puts her hand on it, sassily. "You know. Vivien Leigh and Audrey Hepburn. I wish I looked more like Audrey. Instead I'm a Vivien."

"Oh." Tim knew who Audrey Hepburn was – Angela dragged him to _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ last year. "Who's Vivien Leigh?"

"She played Scarlett O'Hara in _Gone With the Wind_," Angela explains, brushing some mascara on her upper lashes.

"That fucking thing again?" Tim asks. "Jesus fucking Christ, everyone keeps harpin' on and on about that goddamned movie."

"Who else mentioned it?" Angela asks, laughing. "Curly?"

"No, that kid… Ponyboy Curtis."

Angela sets down her mascara and her eyes brighten instantly. "Ponyboy knows about _Gone With the Wind?" _she asks delightedly. "Ooh, that just makes him even cuter to me!" She claps her hands. "It's a really good movie, Tim. You should see it. I've seen it twice. It's a good date movie, because it's really long, so you can make out during the boring scenes." She sighs happily. "But the ending's kinda sad. I mean, Scarlett and Rhett don't even get together. I think that if she'd told him that she loved him sooner, they'd've had a happy ending. All she had to do was admit that she loved him."

**c.**

Seeing Dally was sort of a spur-of-the-moment decision. He read that Dally was in the hospital and decided that it would be a great opportunity to go visit his friend to tell him that A.) it was fucking stupid to go into that burning hospital in the first place and B.) he was officially stupider than Curly for doing that.

There had been lots of yelling and swearing when he entered and then he saw a lunch tray go flying through the air and a nurse running from the room.

"_Wow, Dallas, you're real good at makin' friends, aren't you?" Tim asks, amused._

"_The fuck do you want, Shepard?" Dally growls. "I'm not in the mood."_

_Tim snickers. "Just wanted to let you know that I'm amazed it doesn't say 'Wanted: Dead or Alive' under your ugly mug."_

"_Oh, trust me, I wish it did," Dally mutters. "I'd rather be fuckin' dead or on the run than stuck in here. They were makin' me wear a fuckin' gown and everything."_

_Tim can't help but heartily laugh at that. "You always were a little girl, Dallas."_

"_Wanna make somethin' of it, Shepard?" Dally threatens._

"_Please, you've probably only mastered slap fights and hair pullin'," Tim chuckles._

_In a flash, Dally's out of his bed, savagely grabbing Tim by the hair, yanking his head back and kissing him soundly. Tim kisses him back and Dally lets go, smirking._

"_I'd say I won that round."_

_Tim licks his lips and smiles wolfishly. "In your dreams."_

**iv**.

Tim does not go to Dallas's funeral.

Instead, he goes to the movie theatre and watches a special showing of _Gone With the Wind_. It's a fucking long movie – about four or five hours – and he wishes he'd brought a date, but he ends up liking it, mostly because Rhett Butler was a fucking badass and Scarlett was nice to look at.

At least he was able to smuggle in some booze.

He sits on his roof after the movie gets out and drinks a half a bottle of vodka. The sun is setting, blood red like the yellow belly of the sky was torn open and it's bleeding out its blood and guts, and it's all very gory and Tim wonders why no one ever wrote about those sunsets.

Then he thinks it might be Dally up there, tearing up the sky and making it bleed everywhere and this is his message to Tim.

Tim wipes at his eye and realizes that there are some tears on his hand.

It's probably just from the booze, he tells himself and raises the bottle to Dally and thinks about how if Scarlett had just gotten over that pussy Ashley, she could've been with Rhett forever. They could've had another kid, forgotten about Bonnie Blue Butler and raised crops in Tara together with Mammy.

And then Tim thinks that if he'd told Dally that he loved him, nothing would've changed, except Dally would've thought he was a major fag and pussy and it would've been figurative suicide. And, let's face it, he probably would've committed literal suicide as well if that happened.

And then he wonders if Dally would be here, or on his own roof, toasting to the sky and crying over his dead friend and crying because Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler never got their fairy tale ending, and then he remembers that maybe it's better that Scarlett never got her fairy tale ending, because it reminds Tim that fairy tale endings never happened to people like him.

And then he wonders when he started caring so much about how movies ended.

_Fucking Angela and Ponyboy_, he thinks to himself, and he raises his bottle to the sky. "Here's to you, Dallas Winston," he crows. "Here's to my love."

_end_


End file.
